


Kidnapped

by MizJoely



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Goldfish references, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-06 02:47:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1841473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly is kidnapped...by Mycroft Holmes. Sort of. Humor/Fluff and, oh yeah, Sherlolly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kidnapped

**Author's Note:**

> sherlocksteph requested: Oh yes. First … a huge thank you to accept my request. My prompt: Sherlolly : Jealousy - Molly is kidnapped by Mycroft because he wants steal the “goldfish” to his brother. Sherlock will do anything to find her. Rating T. Ok, I know this prompt is little weird, but send an invitation to 11 PM, never a good idea LOL. I hope you understand my English and Thank you in advance.
> 
> A/N: My original idea for this story was…very different. Dark, verging on filthy, to be honest. But in the end I couldn’t bring myself to go there, so instead…well, this just sort of…happened.

“Is this absolutely necessary? I mean, really? Kidnapping me to keep me safe? Seems like a contradiction if you ask me.”

Molly prattled on nervously in spite of the fact that Mycroft’s stone-faced PA was completely ignoring her, just as she’d ignored Molly’s originals squawks of protest when she’d been manhandled by two burly black-suited goons and hustled into the black car the two women currently occupied. Well, of course the driver was there as well, he being one of the goons, and the second man was seated next to him in the front, but they were separated from Molly and the woman she knew only as ‘Anthea’ by bullet-proof, tinted glass, leaving the other two essentially alone.

This had something to do with the Moriarty broadcast, Molly just knew it did, even though the only proof she had of that was that was Anthea’s tersely worded ‘reassurance’ that this was for Molly’s safety. The only reason she hadn’t struggled and screamed when she’d been grabbed outside of St. Bart’s was because she’d recognized the impatient face of Mycroft's PA peering out of the window at her. Knowing that Sherlock’s intimidating older brother had something to do with this didn’t make Molly any less nervous, though. Just not for her life. Because honestly, what little she’d seen of the man hadn’t exactly given her the warm fuzzies even before this little act of kidnapping.

A half-hour later the car pulled up in front of a nondescript warehouse in one of the dingier parts of London, somewhere near the waterfront but nowhere Molly recognized. She’d finally lapsed into silence when ‘Anthea’ had ostentatiously lowered her head and started tapping at faster and faster speeds on her Blackberry. Which wasn’t helping her nerves any, to be sure, but at least now they’d arrived somewhere, and surely someone – probably not the other woman – would have some answers for her!

She stepped out of the car when the second goon, not the driver, opened it, waiting for a second before realizing that no, ‘Anthea’ wasn’t joining her. “Um, good-bye, then!” Molly called out as the door slammed shut. She and the goon – would he answer her if she asked for his name? – watched as the car made a neat turn and exited the way it had come, leaving the two of them alone.

Just as Molly had steeled herself to ask where they were, Goon 2 grabbed her by the elbow and hustled her into the dirty wooden door set between two equally dirty plate-glass windows, gave her a bit of a shove, and closed the door behind her. While he remained on the other side.

“Well, that was rude!” Molly huffed as she spun round to glare at the door, her hands on her hips. She debated trying the handle, then shrugged and turned back to examine her whereabouts instead. If this was, indeed, a safety measure, then running off the first chance she got was definitely the wrong thing to do.

Shoving her handbag back up to her shoulder (it had dropped to her elbow at some point and she hadn’t noticed until it swung round to bang her smack on the bum), she took a long, careful look at her dim surroundings.

Dim, and dirty. Gah, the place was just as filthy as its exterior, and looked as if it hadn’t been in use since the Cold War era. The only light came through the two large windows at the front, but as Molly’s eyes adjusted she noticed the dim outline of a door at the far end of the vast, echoey interior, and headed for it, picking her way across the debris-strewn floor as best she could. It was a good thing she’d worn sensible flats to work today instead of the low heels she’d considered when dressing for work that morning. And khakis instead of her pencil skirt, the one she owned that made her look like she had hips for a change. But she’d decided against it, not wanting to end up freezing to death half-way through her work day, as usually happened. Well, not ‘to death’ of course, except in the metaphorical sense that any time she went to work she was going ‘to death’, as in the direction of…ooh, she’d have to write that bit up on her blog, no telling how many ‘eww that was gross!’ comments she’d get from her few followers…

As soon as she reached the door, it opened, revealing a brightly lit office that had clearly been tidied up a bit; at least the furniture looked relatively clean and the floor was clutter-free. She stepped boldly inside and turned to see who had opened the door.

She was a bit taken aback to see Mycroft Holmes, the man himself, standing there, watching as she entered the room and following as she took the only seat available. It had been a long day and her feet hurt, sensible ballet flats or no. She studied her ‘host’; the smile on his face looked rehearsed, and only barely reached his eyes. “Mycroft? What are you doing here?”

The smile vanished as if whisked away by magic. “Looking after your safety, Miss Hooper, as Sherlock would no doubt want me to if he were aware that you were in any sort of danger.”

“And am I? In any danger? I mean, really?” Molly tried to laugh as she simultaneously tried to ignore the stab of hurt that went through her at Mycroft’s words. She knew that she couldn’t be even close to the top of the list of Sherlock’s priorities right now, not with a possible Moriarty return to keep him occupied, but still, she had to admit that it would have been nice to get a text from him advising her to keep an eye out for anyone lurking round the morgue that shouldn’t be. But if wishes were horses, as her Dad used to say, so she put that thought right out of her mind and tried to concentrate on the matter at hand.

While her mind continued to whirl in confused circles, she shifted uncomfortably on the hard metal seat she’d taken while Mycroft settled his arse against the desk. Also metal. The desk, not the arse, although of course she couldn’t entirely vouch for that, having never seen the arse belonging to either Holmes brother unclothed. Not that she wanted to, of course; she was entirely over Sherlock by now and had never had the slightest interest in Mycroft, romantically or otherwise.

“Miss Hooper, I have the feeling I don’t have your full attention at this particular moment,” came Mycroft’s dry voice, and Molly’s eyes flew up guiltily to meet his.

_If only you knew_ , she thought, fighting down the sudden urge to giggle. “Um, sorry, it’s just that I still don’t know what I’m doing here, not really. I mean, even if Moriarty is actually back and this isn’t some sort of elaborate, I dunno, prank or something – it’s not, is it?” she interrupted herself to ask, nervously fidgeting with her hair. “Has Sherlock figured it out yet?”

Mycroft frowned, and his grip tightened fractionally on his black umbrella, which Molly belatedly realized he was clutching in both hands. She wondered if it was his version of a security blanket, although somehow she doubted that this haughty, self-possessed icicle of a man had ever needed any such thing. Certainly not since leaving his cot! “Sherlock isn’t the only one working on the problem,” he said, sounding brittle, and Molly came to the startled realization that perhaps her security blanket theory wasn’t that far off. Could he be insecure of his own brother’s abilities, or possibly even…

“You’re jealous!” she blurted out, then gasped and bit her lip, feeling her cheeks go a bit pink from embarrassment. Oh, that was a wonderful way to thank someone who was trying to look out for you, by pointing out something she was sure they’d – he’d – rather not have pointed out!

Mycroft stiffened, his frown morphing into a glare before he deliberately took hold of himself, relaxing both is posture and his features and rather ostentatiously easing his hold on his brolly. “Miss Hooper,” he said, looking down his patrician nose at her, “I can assure you, my feelings toward my brother have absolutely nothing to do with your presence here today.”

“Oh really, Mycroft?”

Both occupants of the room turned to face that unexpected voice, deep and mocking, that came from the darkness of the main room behind them. An unexpected voice, but one they both recognized: Molly smiled in relief as Sherlock strolled into the room, hands casually resting in the pockets of his Belstaff, familiar blue scarf wrapped around his neck, and his dark curls looking a bit windblown and almost irresistibly touchable.

_No, Molly, you’re over him, remember?_ she silently scolded herself. _Yeah, right,_ some inner voice scoffed right back at her. _Suuuuure you are._

Mycroft remained silent, although the supercilious expression faltered just the tiniest bit before reestablishing itself on his features. Molly had no idea what was going on, but apparently she had a front-row seat to it. Sherlock didn’t even glance at her as he asked, “Are you all right, Molly?”

“Fine, just a little confused is all.”

“Yes, my brother enjoys seeing people in that particular state of mind. Don’t you, Mycroft. All the confused little _goldfish_ swimming round.”

Molly bristled a bit, not liking the comparison at all, but calmed as soon as she realized Sherlock was quoting something back at his brother that Mycroft must have said once. “I’m sorry, Sherlock,” the older man replied smoothly. “I didn’t realize this particular goldfish held so much meaning for you.”

Sherlock glared, his hands finally coming out of the jacket pockets, balled into fists. He took one further step forward and then stopped, only a few feet away from Mycroft. “Yes, well, this particular goldfish actually happens to mean quite a lot to me. Which you already knew, or you wouldn’t have gone to so much trouble to kidnap her.”

“It was for her own good,” Mycroft replied, sounding as unruffled as he always did, although his eyes did narrow just a squidge, Molly noted. It was a bit like watching a tennis match, although the brothers were close enough together that she didn’t have to turn her head much. However, craning it was a pain, so she hopped up to her feet in order to get a better look at something she still didn’t quite understand. “Wouldn’t want Moriarty – or whoever is using his name – to get his hands on your favorite pathologist, would we?”

“No,” Sherlock bit out, “which was why I was on my way to St. Bart’s when Lestrade informed me that he happened to see Molly getting into a large government car at the behest of two large government employees. Only the fact that he recognized your PA kept him from sending two large government police cars after it. Instead, he called me and I, of course, knowing exactly where you would have dragged her, came right here to stop you.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at that. “Stop me, brother dear? Stop me from what, keeping your pathologist safe?”

Well, at least she’d graduated from ‘goldfish’ to ‘pathologist’, Molly thought in exasperation. Now, if they’d just stop talking about her as if she wasn’t right there in the room with them… “Um, hello?” she said, deciding then and there to remind them of her presence. Both head swiveled to look at her, with identically startled expressions, as if they had, indeed, forgotten her. Perhaps that was what put the sharpness in her tone as she asked, “Would one of you mind explaining to me just what the hell is going on here? Am I in some sort of danger or not? And Sherlock, why are you so upset with Mycroft taking me, especially if I am? In danger, I mean. Although if I’m not, then I’d _really_ like to know why he took me, come to think of it!”

“Well, Mycroft, shall you tell her or shall I?” Sherlock said, once again biting off each word through gritted teeth. This time, however, he kept his gaze focused on Molly’s face, his eyes meeting hers squarely and with a peculiar look to them she’d never seen before.

Silence from Mycroft caused her to dart her eyes over to him; she was surprised if not actually startled to see that he looked…uncomfortable?? Mycroft Holmes looking uncomfortable?? And her without her mobile handy to snap a photo! “Really, Sherlock, there’s nothing to tell,” he began, but his brother cut him off with a snort of laughter.

“Right, nothing to tell, of course not.” Sherlock stepped away from Mycroft and stood by Molly’s side, reaching down and taking her hand in his. She started in surprise, then looked up at him, baffled by this move. Was Mycroft the danger here, had he somehow been compromised, was this Sherlock’s subtle way of preparing to drag her away at a dead run?

But no, he made no other move, other than to squeeze her hand reassuringly as he turned his gaze on his brother. “Mycroft didn’t take you just to keep you safe from harm, Molly. He took you because he was jealous.”

“I knew it!” she gasped, then knit her brow in confusion, darting glances back and forth between the two men. “Jealous of what?”

“Of our relationship,” Sherlock pronounced, as casually as if he’d said ‘deductions’ or ‘autopsy’.

Instead of clarifying things, Molly only felt her confusion deepening. “Our…relationship?” she repeated doubtfully. “Do you mean our professional relationship? Or our…friendship?”

Sherlock sighed and gave her an impatient look. “No, Molly, our romantic relationship of course, do try to keep up!”

Molly was flabbergasted, and did her best to put together a coherent response to that outrageous assertion, knowing even as she tried that she was doomed to failure. “Our…we don’t…Sherlock…we don’t _have_ a romantic relationship!” she finally exclaimed.

His brow wrinkled. “Of course we do, Molly, and have for some time now! How could you not have noticed?”

She spent a few seconds sputtering out partial protests while Sherlock rolled his eyes and Mycroft smirked, no longer on the back foot now that she’d been put there. “Oh dear, Sherlock, your romantic overtures appear not to have made much of an impression, I’m afraid!”

Sherlock offered his brother a positively fearsome scowl before he smoothed his features into a soft smile and looked down at Molly. “Molly, after you broke things off with what’s-his-name, and after my unfortunate accident…”

“You mean when you were shot?” she asked, rather archly for someone who had just been verbally floundering. 

A hint of the scowl returned, but he nodded. “Yes, after that. When you came to see me in hospital and told me you weren’t angry at me any more for the, erm, lapses in judgment I’d made during my investigation into Magnussen…”

“You mean the drug use and the fake fiancée,” she interrupted, just as archly, but with a warm feeling growing in her stomach and a mad flutter speeding in her throat.

Another scowl, another nod. “Yes, those,” he agreed. “Anyway, after you said you’d forgiven me – sorry, said you were no longer angry with me,” he corrected himself hastily after quite correctly deducing that she was about to interrupt him again, “after that, I told you that I loved you; I know you heard me, you turned a rather becoming shade of pink! Not so different from the one you’re turning now,” he added with a grin, taking her free hand in his and squeezing gently.

“I, ah, thought you’d said that in delirium, or because of the morphine,” Molly mumbled. “Anyway, that was ages ago, and you’ve never said it since! Or kissed me, or, or anything!”

“I’d already said it once and you hadn’t said it back,” Sherlock pointed out. He probably even thought he was being reasonable, Molly thought fondly as she gazed up at him. She’d once had a difficult time gauging his sincerity, but she’d gotten loads more experience in the years they’d known one another, and could easily tell when he was trying to put one over on her. Which he most definitely wasn’t, not this time; he believed every word he was saying, and therefore she did, too. “So I was waiting for you to make the next move. But you were nice to me again, and helped me on cases when I needed you and came for coffee and dinner when I asked you, so I just assumed you knew we were dating!”

Molly shook her head, feeling the tears building in her eyes and ignoring them as she whispered, “Oh, you daft man!” before reaching up and drawing his head down for a long, lingering kiss.

The sound of a throat being loudly cleared behind her reminded her that she and Sherlock weren’t exactly alone, and she pulled away with a giggle, offering Mycroft a veiled look and an apologetic shrug. “Well,” the other man said thinly, “I suppose I should just take myself off then, Miss Hooper, as it appears you are in…capable hands.”

“More than capable,” Sherlock muttered, pulling Molly close, one arm surrounding her shoulders as she came to rest snugly against his lean form. “Next time you feel like kidnapping my pathologist…right, sorry, my girlfriend,” he corrected himself as Molly made a small noise of discontent, “do rethink that option, will you? Even if you are jealous that I found myself a better goldfish than you’ll ever manage,” he finished, somewhat spitefully.

Molly nudged him in the ribs, he offered her an apologetic look and his brother a disdainful sniff, and she allowed him to escort her out of the office and back through the warehouse. When she chanced a look over her shoulder, Mycroft had disappeared from view, and shortly from her thoughts; as soon as they reached the main door, Sherlock pushed her up against it and proceeded to snog the breath out of her. “That, Miss Hooper,” he said when the kiss ended, “was to ensure that you recognized my romantic intentions. Right?”

“Right!” she gasped, then followed him outside and to the waiting car he’d got from…somewhere. Somewhere she wasn’t about to ask him any questions about.

The future wasn’t exactly rosy, not with a possible Moriarty return or copycat on the loose, and not with Sherlock still facing murder charges – oh no, she hadn’t forgotten that he’d been taken into custody and not allowed to see her before he left for some sort of hush-hush secret mission! – but it wasn’t nearly as dark as it had been before.

“Oh! I almost forgot!” she exclaimed as Sherlock started up the car. He gave her an inquiring look; she leaned forward and snagged him for a quick kiss. “I love you too!”

“Good!” he responded with a grin, then they drove off, ready to face whatever the future brought them.

Together.


End file.
